


He Talks in His Sleep (Part VI)

by knaval



Series: He Talks in His Sleep [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sleep Walking, Sleep talking, Sleeping Together, Sleepovers, Sleepy Boys, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Stiles, Stiles is a Little Shit, eh sleepy sex, he talks in his sleep, little bit of angst okay, sleep talk, sort of, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaval/pseuds/knaval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FINAL PART</p><p>the one where there is the talking and the sleeping and some strange mix of the two</p><p>okay its angsty</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Talks in His Sleep (Part VI)

**Author's Note:**

> wow can you believe i put off posting this another two days because i didnt feel like copying the tags over? yeah me neither
> 
> alright, one of you found me on tumblr i dont know how but i figure i should post my link here anyway: http://autopiloted.tumblr.com/
> 
> okay, so the part 1/2/3/etc thing is really annoying i know so im just going to make a version where it's just seperate chapters okay   
> and imma add a bonus chapter to that maybe if anyone has any cute suggestions for what they should do next ;D

Stiles has stopped talking in his sleep.

He still does, some nights, but it's much less often, in more murmurs and slurred words that barely let Derek in, and he's not sure how to feel about that. It's become so quiet at night he wakes at the slightest sound. The lack of words leaves him tossing and turning, waiting for their soft presence to guide him to sleep like a lullaby. Regardless, he puts the pillows in place. This is what he wanted, wasn't it? For Stiles to be quiet and let him rest in peace.

But the dreams haven't stopped happening, and they've been getting worse.

And by "worse" he means they make him happier than ever and leave him achingly alone when he wakes.

The dreams are always too realistic, and yet never enough. Like all dreams, everything seems utterly normal, that he would greet Stiles with a kiss and continue to talk to him without bickering, nothing unusual in how Stiles climbed into his lap to run his teeth along Derek's jawline, completely ordinary that he would wake up to see Stiles beside him.

 Too often the dreams are of the nights only a few weeks ago, where he's laying down on his side, so much closer to the middle, closer to Stiles than he allows himself now. The wall isn't there and he's smiling, listening to Stiles dream aloud. The only difference in his dreams and the nights from a few weeks prior, is that in his dreams he's not afraid to reach out to touch Stiles' face, to thread his fingers through his hair, to haul him bodily onto his side of the mattress and bury his face against Stiles’ shoulder. Longing for an extension of what he had for a handful of the shortest seconds, and he’s not sure whether he wishes he had been awake enough then so that now he could recall every detail, material for when he indulges in wanton fantasies, or that he already remembers too much.

If only he had utterly fucked everything up.

He can remember it and it haunts his waking moments like a nightmare he just woke from, only the horror doesn’t fade it, no it grows with ever second he spends thinking and agonizing over how he completely, utterly, and totally fucked everything up.

He remembers looking up to see Stiles’ eyes, open and honest and waiting ever so hopefully, eagerly anticipating the next few seconds, biting his lips as if he were preparing himself to savor this moment so he could dream about it later, so that when he was alone he could remember it and blush, and try not to smile too much in case anyone caught him grinning like an idiot.

Perhaps if Derek had it in him to be more suave, or maybe if he just wasn’t such an emotionally stunted and incapable werewolf, he might have let the moment take over, let it play out as it should have, he could have just moved in and kissed Stiles the way he was aching to. He could have looked away and nodded and let Stiles pull closer to him. He should have done anything else. Hell, he could have probably just sat there and done nothing at all and it probably would have turned out better than this.

Of course, he froze, unable to think. He knew those eyes. Those were Stiles’ “Lydia” eyes

But he wasn't looking at Lydia. She wasn't there, neither wedged between the two of them, nor in Derek’s spot, no matter how many times Stiles had probably fantasized her there.

He was looking at Derek, with such adoration and hopefulness waiting on that moment.

That moment that Derek was cornered, and did as he always had, putting on an angry exterior and shoving affection aside.

“In your dreams, Stilinski,” he had snapped, shoving Stiles over roughly.

“I just … I just wanted to …” Stiles trailed off, before he rolled over in bed away from Derek. The bed felt a lot colder than it had before. They laid in bed for hours, and he could feel Stiles' restlessness inches from him, and he recoiled from it, knowing he was the cause of it.

Neither of them got much sleep after that, and neither of them said anything. Even with Stiles inches from him, he felt incredibly alone, and was left to wrestle with his regret. The bed feels cold and almost as empty as his own with stiles curling up in the corner, trying to stay as far away from Derek.

That night they said nothing more, and in the day it was quiet too. He avoided Stiles even more, speaking tersely to him without endearment or kindness. He ceased stopping by Stiles’ house, and did not text him when he was bored. He slept by himself, curled up on the edge of the mattress.

At first, Stiles pursued and pestered him. He showed up at the burned shell of the Hale House, he abused his copy of the key to Derek’s apartment, he wandered in the woods and by the traincar. He called emergency pack meetings to only Derek, and ambushed him at real pack meetings. Boyd, Erica and Isaac visited Derek with worn faces, telling him that Stiles had been interrogating them about finding Derek. Whenever Stiles caught sight of Derek in public, he chased after him, sometimes shouting words Derek couldn’t let himself listen to. He has to uproot his routine to avoid him, but he does it anyway because he can’t face him. Perhaps if he avoids it long enough, they’ll forget all about it. Perhaps the distance he puts between them will diminish his affections and tire out Stiles’ stubbornness.

Stiles tries and tries to catch him and communicate, but he’s stopped talking in his sleep.

Derek knows because he stops by, looking in Stiles’ window just to make sure he’s alright. That’s all it is, he tells himself, only to make sure he’s alright.

Okay he’s lying to himself.

For all his running away he keeps running back here, because this is where he’ll always come to, to Stiles.

He’s perched on the roof, resting on his heels to peek in the windows, which are flung wide open despite the ever approaching onslaught of winter. Even in the summer they were only ever open a crack for Derek.

The window blows and he catches Stiles’ scent in it, fresh and heady, taking hold of his attention that he wants to close his eyes and just bury himself in it. Over the months his clothes had picked up Stiles’ scent, but by each passing night it smelled less and less like him.

Stiles no longer mumbles in his sleep, or cries out in the night, and Derek wonder to himself why he ever did this to either of them. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he's no longer going there for shelter or just to check on him, but to be near Stiles, because even though he can’t be with him, this is all of him he can get.

Why had it makes sense to him, to never tell Stiles? To be stoic, to pretend he was incapable of emotion? Why was it that to never admit one’s feelings of affection for another seemed the wiser path? Why was it so, when so often he wanted to hold Stiles and kiss him, to feel his cheek against his own, the smooth skin against rough, to press mouths, to bite and explore and touch? That whenever they exchanged texts, swapping witty banters for a few brief moments he smiled, and he was unable to will it away until some hours later? That although he never talked much, all he only wanted to listen to Stiles ramble on and on, and even that alone could make him immensely happy? That he replayed their one-sided conversations in his head, and pretended he had joined in, that in boredom his thoughts always jumped to something he could say to Stiles?

Why was the solution so difficult to take charge of, to execute, even when opportunity had presented itself on a plate with an apple in its mouth?

How easily it would have been solved with the simple act of _telling him_. How happiness seemed so reachable with the solution, _tell him_. But it was so hard to voice the words. During the day, he could not even draft a text to send, to attempt to make amends. He knew the words, there were so few and so easy to pronounce, no difficult diction or grammar to stumble over, how could they be so difficult to say? The days leading up to that horrible moment where he fucked everything up, he had been scared the words might accidentally roll off his tongue, he would be unable to catch himself and Stiles would hear him, and it would have been a terrible disaster. In that horrible moment he regretted the most these days, where Stiles, _damn him for tricking him into nearly saying it-!_ he felt that that fear had been justified at the time.

Yet now it seemed impossible to say them again. He had no idea how to explain his affections, even when he was given the words. He could have been given a script and he would still find it impossible to wrench he words from his throat. He never knows how he’ll say it to Stiles, how he’ll ever repair this.

Before he’s even really conscious of it, he’s slipped in through the window by his practiced routine, approaching the bed in the dark without a sound.

If Stiles were awake, and on better terms with him, Derek’s sure that Stiles would be telling just how creepy he’s being. He can’t feel it and it discomforts him enough for him to tell himself he’ll leave in just a moment; he just needs this moment to pretend everything is back to the way it used to be, and is the way it could have been.

Stiles looks so peaceful here, sprawled out and tangled up in the sheets. His shirt is pulled up, exposing his stomach with his hand laying so easily on it, a few fingers straying just under the band of his boxers. The last couple of weeks, all Derek has seen of his face was fleeting glimpses, tainted by stress and strain, and momentary panic as Derek tried to escape. But here, there’s none of that.

The moon is wide and opulent behind him, pale reflected light washing the room. His face is relaxed, and he looks, Derek realizes, much older than he when they first met. Of course he had noticed him age over the past couple years, watched him grow into his own lengthy limbs and better fill out his scrawny figure, and denied to himself his fascination with the way the baby fat had melted him his face to show those cheekbones and that more angled jaw. The moles stayed, an interesting constant, stars he had used to guide him through the years.

Stiles sighs, shifting in his sleep and groaning. Derek should have been out the window in a second, but already he’s too attached; he wonders if he could even move an inch away now. He pries his eyes away from Stiles’, forcing himself to leave.

When Stiles moans his name he knows he can’t.

He’s back by Stiles’ side in an instant, hanging on every noise as Stiles is sleep-mumbling out. Derek wants to hold him and clasp his hands in his, to crawl under the sheets with him and stay the night.

“Derek. Deeeeeeeeeee-rek. Hmmhmph. Miss you. Miss it,” Stiles is saying, half burying his face in his pillow, his fingers dipping lower beneath the waistband of his boxers as he says Derek’s name.

“-I miss it too,” Derek says softly before he realizes. “I miss ... whatever it was that we had.” 

He turns his back to stiles, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I miss ... you.” He runs a hand through his hair self-consciously, scratching at his neck. He laughs a little, unable to think, yet the words come without too much thought. The words that had been stuck in his throat are pouring out.

“You let me in without question and I ... I couldn't do the same for you. And I don't know how to fix that now.” He shifted on the bed uneasily.

“No. No, don't go. You don't need to go yet,” Stiles moans in his sleep. He sounds weak and wounded and his voice becomes terribly small and begging. “ _Stay_.”

Derek reaches over and touches his cheek; it’s all he can do to not scoop him up into his arms and reassure him he’ll never leave again after hearing his voice like that, but it pains him to think that once he wakes up things will go back to their regular animosity. He brushes a thumb along the skin to reassure one of them. “I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you, don't worry.”

Even though asleep, Stiles seemed to relax at that, settling further into his pillow.

“I need you,” he mumbled after a minute, mostly talking into the pillow. “So much. I need-…I need…”

“I know. If… if you didn't need me, I don't know what I’d do. I’d be lost.” He chuckles at that because he can’t believe how true it is.

“If only you knew. How much I need you. Not-"

"Not just for a place to stay,” Derek whispers, touching Stiles’ hand, the one that’s not on his stomach. “Being around you makes me, well, annoyed, but I need that. To be around you, I mean, not annoyed. Though you are annoying.” He’s rambling. Stiles has rubbed off on him, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“And when I look at you, you're just so peaceful when you're asleep... That's kind of creepy when I think about it,” Derek says, thinking aloud.

Stiles lets out a soft snore which Derek takes as some subconscious ‘ _yeah that really is_ ’. He smiles and it crinkles his eyes.

“I just wish it wasn't so hard for me to be like this when we're awake. I don't know how we ended up like that. Sometimes it’s like we hate each other so much we might as well be in love,” his voice is growing thick, his throat closing up in a way that feels stupidly like crying. He lets of Stiles’ hand, turning away from him, burying his face in his hands. He needs to say this now because he might never get the chance again.

“Good thing you're asleep because I feel like an idiot, saying this. We haven’t even really gotten to ‘I don’t hate you’,” he mostly mumbles to himself. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. There they are, the words stuck in his throat that have been blocking everything else he needed to say. He thinks that if they never work things out while awake, if they never talk again face to face and fully conscious, at least he’ll have said this here and now. Perhaps then, if he has to, he’ll be able to forgive himself and move on.

“But I think I might I love you,” he manages at last, directing the words to nothing, staring only at the darkened room. It’s quiet and he lets himself take in a few relaxed breaths.

“Hold the phone.” Stiles voice says from behind him.

Derek turns around so fast he nearly falls off the bed. There’s Stiles, sitting upright looking a little too alert for someone supposedly just asleep.

“Dude,” he says, very much awake and eyes devious with an "I told you so" wickedly waiting in his grin. Derek can feel the color drain from his face.

What.

 _What_.

Stiles _pretends_ to talk in his sleep.

“God, it took _months_ of that shit to get you to say that and _oh my god_ , you were never actually going to tell me to my face, were you?” Stiles is saying, scooting over to Derek, who is somewhat catatonic, and still processing the last few seconds while Stiles casually links his ankles around Derek’s waist, as if they’ve been doing it for months.

Well, they kind of have.

“Hell, that really freaked me out when you suddenly hated me. Don’t scare me like that again,” Stiles says, batting him gently upside the head. Derek’s still vaguely catatonic. “I mean, I knew you had feelings for me, but _come on_ , Derek.”

He can’t bring himself to be angry with Stiles grinning at him like an idiot, touching his face and nuzzling his neck and pressing fully against his back and _hello_.

His voice is hoarse as he goes to speak. “You knew?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders. “Derek, for fuck's sake we sleep together every night. You think I wouldn't notice that? We’re half married already.” Stiles blushes at that last part, but he shrugs it off.

Derek tries to say something, but his mind is buzzing with so many questions and with a bit of residual shock he can’t figure out what to say or ask first. He’s not ever sure he’s really there. Stiles pulls on him, coaxing him into laying down on the bed together. Stiles shifts around a bit, curling up against Derek and tangling his lanky legs with Derek’s the way it should be. It feels right. Stiles settles back on his side, looking at Derek.

Finally Derek manages, “Why?” He’s not sure how to phrase it, but he think Stiles gets it.

He shrugs and looks a little embarrassed, flushing under the moonlight. “Because I needed to see you smile again. And you've been poutier than usual since the pillow-wall of Jericho.”

Derek swallows. He stutters, and he’s no longer sure of how to say much of anything. “Is this, are you forgiving me-?”

Stiles shushes him with many fingers pressed against his mouth. “You're there when I wake up. Every day, no exceptions. Unless you're making breakfast."

Derek nods, because it’s all he can manage now, and Stiles leans forward to kiss him. It’s sweet and honest, and its much less dirty than Derek would have thought Stiles would kiss, but right now it’s enough to fall asleep next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> SO GIMME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE BONUS CHAPTER
> 
> OR A PROMPT FOR A FIC
> 
> OR JUST FEEDBACK Y'KNOW
> 
> BECAUSE I LOVE FEEDBACK


End file.
